It's not chance, Mr Holmes
by AriadneHeart
Summary: An alternate ending to The Reichenbach Fall, in which John plays a much different part. Picks up  more or less  after the visit to Kitty. Warnings: character death, thus the M rating . Can be seen as S/J slash or strong friendship.


_Note: This is the first fanfiction I've written for public eyes in years and it fought me 100% of the way, so I'm a bit nervous in posting it. Reviews are welcome, but be gentle with me!_

_I was also playing around with style, so for your reference Sherlock's thoughts are generally in bold parentheses and John's in italic parentheses._

* * *

><p>When John gave him an awed smile instead of an insult after his deductions, when he ran beside him on dark streets, when he shot the cabbie, Sherlock suspected. When John was his match at chess, Sherlock knew.<p>

He was a military man, he understood the need to think clearly—how to be still—under pressure; he knew when sacrifices had to be made. John was smart, not Sherlock-brilliant, not by a long-shot, but he could see those lines from where he was to where he needed to be like no one else. In a position to take the queen, a rook or check the king. Bishop threatened by a knight. None of that mattered; he needed a checkmate. He advanced a pawn and as a result lost three pieces, but he won the game.

Sherlock was still for a long time staring at the board even after John wordlessly stood up and wandered into the kitchen to do the washing up. He wasn't angry like when he had lost at Cluedo or John had asserted his superior knowledge of the solar system, he was simply surprised.

"How?" He wasn't asking about where the set up began, the way the strategy played out. No, that was **(painfully) **obvious from rewinding the moves **(and the movements; hand hovering over the pawn in indecision, but staring at the bishop in a bluff three turns later) **in his mind. If John answered the question that way Sherlock would hate him, just for a second, for being so ordinary. The grimace was already half formed on his face in anticipation when John answered.

Walking over to his favourite chair and resting his hands on the back he mused, eyes on the seat cushion, "The King is the only piece that matters. Everything else is… transport."

His mouth quirked on the last word like he had amused himself, and for the first time in his life Sherlock felt there was a meaning rolling beneath those syllables that he did not understand. His eyes snapped up to look at John, who slowly raised his head. The eye contact lasted just a second too long and yes, there was _definitely_ a conversation going on here in the grey-blue snaps that Sherlock Holmes' computer of a mind couldn't break down into binary.

John finally turned away and headed towards his bedroom. "Goodnight, Sherlock." The smile in his voice was clear as he spoke over his shoulder **(The right, always the right. Out of habit now, the left wouldn't hurt him anymore.)**.

Sherlock was glad.

"Goodnight, John," he said, long after he was gone.

* * *

><p>They played chess a few more times after that, Sherlock winning most games now. Whenever he didn't he would ask how. John would wordlessly clear all the pieces off the board and then place Sherlock's king—black every time—in front of him. He would stare at it for hours, not understanding.<p>

So when Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes were locked in their combat, so focused on taking pieces; the blind woman, the two children, Mrs. Hudson, himself, John knew it was up to him to remember one thing. The King must not fall.

He stole Sherlock's phone and wrote down Moriarty's number. Sherlock knew of course that his phone had been touched **(Small hands, no embedded flecks of dirt (neat—military?), heavy oil deposit, abnormal arch pattern on the pointer finger. John's hands),** and if he were not so wrapped up in the case he would have probably figured out why **(John didn't borrow his things. To check his texts or calls for him?)**. Instead the observation was filed away as another quirk about John **(a doctor who didn't mind killing, more importantly, a doctor who wasn't ruled by fear of death-it was their business after all to cheat mortality…)** that he didn't understand, something to think about in the unbearable lull between cases.

_I can make you a better offer_, John's text said. An hour later when John was trying to do the shopping _(life didn't stop just because they were in the middle of a war)_ the chip and PIN machine answered him. He scanned the lettuce. _How about an apple?_ It said. He scanned a tin of vegetables. _How about an apple?_ Milk. _How about an apple? _He pushed the payment button. _Thank you, _it said. _Payment has been made in the form of an IOU. Please take your bags and receipt._ Looking over the scrap of paper printed from the machine, all three purchases had rung up as an apple. The prices next to each line read:

_Leave_

_The_

_Garden_

The bottom line was an address and time.

* * *

><p>Somehow, seeing the cab pull up to a rather ordinary looking flat didn't comfort John in the least. He began to leaf through his wallet to pay the driver, but was stopped when the man started shaking his head.<p>

"It's been taken care of."

John tilted his head inquisitively, but his blood ran cold with understanding when a small dark smile played around the lips of the cabbie. "Good evening, Doctor Watson."

"Ah! John!" He turned towards the high voice of Jim Moriarty, beckoning him like an old friend. "We have so much to talk about." Voice low now, in the back of his throat.

John looked at the mutable man before him uneasily, but gave a short nod. There was no point in turning back now. He climbed the few steps to the platform in front of the door where Moriarty was waiting, surreptitiously checking his surroundings for snipers, explosives, poison.

"Don't be silly, Johnny boy, killing you now would be no fun."

Their eyes met, wary grey blue against dangerous empty brown.

"Well?" John asked, voice steady, waiting.

For a long moment Moriarty remained expressionless, boring blackness into John who tilted his neck back ever so slightly but continued to meet his gaze. A slow, deadly, smile spread across Moriarty's face.

"After you," he said, moving to the side to let John pass in front of him, eyes downcast, until he crossed the threshold. Following him, Moriarty smiled, teeth flashing even in the shadowed entryway, as he shut the door behind them.

The flat they were in was obviously uninhabited. There was almost no furniture, only the bare minimum that would be needed for a person staying a few days. A safe house, then. Surprisingly, the place was almost immaculately clean; there was no dust anywhere. It was unsettling somehow, like a human skeleton completely stripped of nerves, muscles, evidence of life. Bare white-brown bones, ominous and smooth.

Moriarty directed John straight ahead into the kitchen. The room was dim, the only light coming from two small windows over the sink. The sun was setting now, giving the room a faint orange glow that should have been warm, but somehow wasn't. There was a plain brown table in the middle of the room, but no chairs. At least he knew better than Mycroft.

The countertops were hidden in the shadow of the cabinets above them, but John could just make out three objects lined up to the left of the sink. Before he could examine them, movement in the hall behind him drew his attention back to the perilous situation he was in. He turned to watch Moriarty stalk towards him, a darker shadow in the shadows. He paused just behind the doorframe, face still shrouded, two points of obsidian glittering where his eyes should be.

"It's good to see you, _John_." His voice was flat, void, but John's name was spoken with poison. The hairs on his arms raised and for one second, just one, the orange light caught in the black glass and Moriarty was no longer a man at all.

He stepped forward and the illusion was broken, but John was still shaken.

"An _angel_, how lucky of me," Moriarty drawled, ignoring the way John was straightening himself into military mode. "But you won't ever fly…no. You won't even fall." There was a pout in his voice now as he circled John to reach the other side of the table. "So what to do with you? A choice." He opened his hands in a sweeping gesture across the bare table, directly opposite now.

"Don't you want to hear my offer?" John's voice was empty too, but not laced with that deadly malice.

"Oh Johnny, I know your offer. You know there is only one thing that I would _dream _of accepting. Do try to keep up. I wonder why Sherlock puts up with this. _Illuuuminating_ he calls you, a conductor of light."

John's left hand twitched minutely at his side.

"I don't see light when I look at you, Johnny, I see kindling."

Black. Eyes.

John swallowed but continued. "If you know my plan-"

"Oh, I would hardly call it a plan."

"-what I'm willing to give you… why am I here? What's there to talk about?"

Moriarty leaned over the table conspiratorially and whispered, "I accept."

"Good," John answered despite the dread that dropped into his stomach and the fear that ran up his spine. "But then, what...?"

"Payment. The details have to be… negotiated." He turned toward the counter to retrieve the three objects. Apples.

The first apple was placed on the table. Even in the orange glow there was a word clearly carved into it in sharp letters. _Interposed._

"You owe me these, John."

_Orchestrates._

"There is one for each of us."

_Untouched._

"I know which I am," he said, sliding back the center apple. "But do you?"

John looked at the table before him. _IOU_. It was neat. He laughed, placing two fingers against his lips.

"What?" Moriarty glared, eyes narrow.

"For something you had to throw together in a hurry, this is good." He gestured toward the apples.

"I don't relish having to give up the other plan. It was… beautiful."

John decided that the word beautiful sounds like glass breaking in the mouth when Moriarty says it.

"That's why I'm giving you this choice. _Interposed_ or _Untouched_. One of you will live, and the other will die trying to save them."

Fact. Simple fact. John tried to treat it that way.

"How would Sherlock die trying to save me? I know you were going to press him into suicide, but how do I fit into it?"

"Snipers." Dismissal. Boredom.

"Snipers plural?"

"Oh yes. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. Unless he jumped."

"Jumped?"

"He would choose that. There's nothing more fitting for a fall, no other way to finish the melody. I even know where he would go. St. Bart's, his second home. He is so touchingly sentimental about some things." Moriarty paused while his eyes flickered over John. "How did you know I would make him?"

"Because he knew. 'There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game, and that's to—' He cut off. But I'm not stupid."

"Ah! Very good!" Did he actually sound pleased? "But of course if he knew he would try to fake it. Rest assured, John, my people and I will be _verrry _careful that neither of you will be able to do so." His smiling face suddenly turned stormy. He sighed. "You see, Johnny, I'm just so torn. If one of you has to die, I'd rather it be you. I might be able to pull a bit more fun out of old Sherlock. But the other plan was so much work, so elegant. The great Sherlock Holmes dying in disgrace. You won't let me have the press against him with your plan, will you? Please?"

John couldn't say anything. How could he answer such a ridiculous question, like Moriarty was a child who might be able to wheedle more sweets out of his mother? Finally he took John staring daggers into him as an answer and sighed again. "Alright. Riley will be taken care of." Oddly enough, John believed him. Moriarty, in his obscene way, played fair.

He started to pace.

"I don't know. You'll have to pick, because I can't. I can't choose." Keening. "I CAN'T CHOOSE."

A heavy silence fell and finally Moriarty stopped and spun with decision to fix John with his cold stare, the corners of his mouth in a growl. It was time. John took a step forward toward the table. He picked up _Interposed_ with his left hand and _Untouched_ with his right, examining them both. As he tilted them into the dying light, the jagged words and the weight of his decision leapt out at him. The sun had sunk farther now behind a strand of trees in the distance. The combination of the flickering shadows from the leaves in the wind and the orange light that had deepened into red made John feel like he was trapped in some blazing inferno.

He closed his eyes and slipped one apple in his pocket. He felt the lettering on his own with his thumb.

_Interposed._

* * *

><p>"Good. <em>Untouched<em> is more fitting for Sherlock anyway. Untouched by hand _or_ bullet!"

Moriarty's voice came from far away.

Finally, impatient with John's lack of answer, "It's poisoned, you know."

John nodded, eyes still closed, his heartbeat speeding up as he brought the apple to his mouth…

"No. Not here."

"Where?" Time was slowing down, making his words heavy.

"The Garden."

John's eyes snapped open but the room was dark now. Moriarty looked him up and down.

"I want him to watch you burn."

* * *

><p>The cab ride back to 221B was the most surreal experience of his life.<p>

As an army doctor, John Watson had experienced death more than most people. He'd killed men, watched many more be killed, put himself in mortal peril and almost died because of it. But this wasn't just a risk anymore, however stacked the odds. This was certainty, 100%. He knew he was going to die, and he didn't know what to do with it.

So he thought about other things.

_Interposed._ Another chess term, for when a piece blocks a check by throwing itself into the path of the attacker. The attack couldn't come from the opposing king of course, so John imagined that piece was Moriarty's original plan rather than Moriarty himself. No, the game would go on after he was gone and the best he could hope for was to give Sherlock an advantage in addition to preventing his fall.

How like chess it all was. Moriarty clearly saw it too.

_Interpos__ed__. Orchestrat__es__. Untouch__ed__._ The change of form didn't escape John; it was a symbol of Sherlock's greatest torment, the very same reason he went mad between cases, why he needed the murder, the criminals, Moriarty, why Donovan expected him to someday snap. He was the reaction, not the action. It was their great weakness, the advantage that Sherlock was playing against. He was playing defensively as black, Moriarty always one step ahead. All it would take was one mistake and they would lose… they had come so close already.

John shook his head before resting it on the back of his seat, eyes examining the roof of the cab. Chess was just another battlefield. He had seen so many that they began to all feel familiar, like home even. He remembered his relief at finding it again with Sherlock in adrenaline rushes and city lights. He looks out of the window. Pedestrians, price tags and neon. His heartbeat is slow but hard.

This wasn't the battlefield; this was the mortuary and he was awake to see it. Comparing the two John Watson knew which he preferred.

* * *

><p>When the cab pulled up to 221B John got out without paying the driver, not really surprised when he wasn't called back.<p>

The sound of the vehicle pulling away faded as John stood motionless on the sidewalk staring at his own front door. This was the last time he'd be coming home really, and he wanted to press every second of it into his brain. He wasn't sure if he should be thinking that way, but why not? It wouldn't matter soon.

John could feel the movement of oxygen in his lungs now, hear the muted beat of his heart in his ears. He was hypersensitive to the wind tugging at his jacket and the feeling of his socks being pushed into the soles of his feet by the concrete beneath him. Maybe this is how Sherlock felt all the time, but about everything. He understood how it could be maddening.

With one long exhale John straightened himself, took the few steps necessary to cross the sidewalk, and opened the door.

* * *

><p>Sherlock heard John bounding up the stairs clearly, even from the depths of his mind palace. They had left at the same time, Sherlock to fabricate false leads for the police so he could return to the flat to think and John to "see if there was anything to be done about the press."<p>

Sitting in John's chair, he replayed over and over the confrontation with Moriarty only days before. There had to be something, a slip in his speech, a clue, a way out of this impossible situation. For one moment, hours before, he thought he had the solution. Before he realized the keycode didn't really exist.

The one possibility that still held some promise was faking his own death, but logistically it was a nightmare. Even more than staging a convincing death, the problem was how to stay dead. Obviously remaining in Baker Street would not be an option. Sherlock felt a twinge at the thought of leaving the flat, Mrs. Hudson... John. The twinge flared into a burn. Still, if it was the only option…

"_SHERLOCK."_

Startled out of his thoughts, Sherlock's mind palace snapped out of place around him.

"_Fantastic,_ John. It could take me hours to pull those pieces back together again, hours we don't have! Did the thought ever occur to your simple mind that Moriarty is not sitting idle during this time, or do you simply not care about the consequences?"

"…Sherlock…" The name came out hurt, overwhelmed. It wasn't that he wasn't used to being snapped at in this way, that was just how his friend operated, it was that he didn't understand. He didn't know. How could John explain this? _(It's over. Time doesn't matter anymore, Sherlock, the clock stops when my heart does. And "hours" we don't have? No, we're down to minutes now. How many? 15? 30? He's taking me instead.)_ But that's not what came out of his mouth.

"I care," he said, his voice pained. Because suddenly that was the point that had to be made. That this decision made both logical and emotional sense. Sherlock was the only person who could defeat Moriarty; he couldn't _die._ And… John loved Sherlock. He needed him, didn't even want to imagine living without him; he _couldn't_ die. The world _needed_ his brilliance, his light, his humanity even if no one could see it. "I do care."

"Of course you do, that's your problem!"

"Sherlock, stop."

"Just who is it helping?"

"You for one, you sodding git!"

Sherlock seemed startled by the sudden outburst of violence in John's voice and fell silent, head tilting like an inquisitive child, eyes much softer. "John…"

"Please, let's not fight like this. Not when—not now."

For some unknown reason, Sherlock felt his insides twist but he nodded slowly.

John met his gaze but quickly looked away with a sigh. "I'll make us coffee and then we can discuss everything, yes?"

Sherlock nodded again, wondering why cold premonition was creeping over his skin. There was a very strong urge to say something, anything to bring John's warmth back. "Perhaps an outside opinion will be useful?" he offered hesitantly.

After months of living together John recognized Sherlock's subtle way of asking to be forgiven. He accepted with a small smile. Sherlock felt his insides unclench a bit but the coldness had settled over him in a sheet.

* * *

><p>John leaned forward onto the kitchen counter watching the coffee brew. Breathing, just focus on breathing. The last thing he needed was to pass out and send two Moriarty-initialed apples rolling across the floor. He pulled<em> Interposed<em> out of his pocket; _Untouched _would have to wait until later. Sherlock couldn't know until it was too late, not if there was even a chance he would be able to identify the poison and provide an antidote.

A wave of rage crashed over John._ Damn Moriarty, damn him and his cruelty!_ The thought of Sherlock having to watch his best friend dying was almost too much. If their situations were reversed… no, that's what John had to prevent. He passed a hand over his eyes. There was no other way. It would motivate him.

He laughed at the absurdity of it all, at being angry with himself for being insensitive about Sherlock's feelings towards his own death.

Pouring two cups of coffee and adding sugar to Sherlock's, he grabbed his apple and returned to the living room.

Sitting in his customary chair opposite his friend, John felt himself relax slightly. How many times had he done this before? He tried to convince himself this time would be little different.

"Thank you," murmured Sherlock, taking the coffee. He was trying to be extra polite after yelling at John earlier and it nearly broke his heart.

"No problem." He cleared his throat, turning the apple over in his hands, always careful to keep the lettering away from those keen eyes. "So, what have we got?"

John was only half listening as Sherlock began to go over the details of the last few days, the events of preceding months, everything he knew or had to guess _(not a good sign)_ about Moriarty. Occasionally he interjected his own comments but for the most part he was silent, trying to imprint that low voice into his mind right next to the feeling of coming home and the undefinable color of those eyes.

The rumbling of said voice suddenly ceased and said eyes sharpened onto his. He resisted the urge to jerk the apple toward him guiltily. Thank god Sherlock's experiment to find out when John was looking at something scandalizing on his laptop had taught him better.

"John, are you alright?" he asked, voice concerned.

"Of course. Yes. Maybe you should look at the map you drew up." He gestured at the case files, pictures, and lab reports tacked above the couch.

With one last searching glance, Sherlock uneasily stood and began muttering at his vague collection still unable to shake that sense of cold.

His back was turned, there would be no better time.

John felt his muscles tense and he fought to keep his breathing normal despite the sudden rush of adrenaline. So, this was it. He turned the apple in his hand one last time, noting the orange-brown hue of those sharp letters. Time to interpose.

He took a sip of coffee so the sudden noises wouldn't catch Sherlock's attention and bit into the apple.

Closing his eyes, he recognized the taste almost immediately. Almonds. Cyanide.

* * *

><p>Minutes later Sherlock was still contemplating the physical version of Moriarty's web, but as each second passed his mind became less and less focused on the task. What was it, what was distracting him? When he could ignore it no longer he cast a frustrated mental eye over himself.<p>

He felt freezing. His heartbeat was loud and agitated in his ears, constricting his chest. Obviously his subconscious had picked up on something wrong. Something troubling in the web? No, his eyes almost refused to focus on it. His surroundings?

Finally he heard it, John's breathing, muffled but undeniably ragged. "John?" When there was no answer, he turned quickly.

"John!"

There was something very wrong with the man in the chair. His skin was flushed pink, eyes slightly unfocused, his entire body twitching… All of his attention seemed to be focused on the hand over his mouth trying to mask the sounds of labored breathing. **(What is it doing there in the first place? What is he trying to hide?)**

Sherlock was kneeling at his side in an instant, pulling his hand from his mouth, taking his pulse **(Irregular, why, why is it irregular? Some kind of panic attack? No John does not panic a drug look around for god's sake)**, and surveying the immediate area.

"Are you alright? John! What happened, John?" Fear had crept into Sherlock's voice, but at this moment he could really care less.

Finally John's eyes focused on his through a haze. He shook his head no once, slowly, never breaking eye contact.

"No? No…" Sherlock's gaze suddenly snapped to the apple core on a saucer that was no longer hidden after John moved his head.

**(Red, it's red, John doesn't eat red apples, he eats green apples. The only reason there are red ones in the flat is because he knows they are one of the only things I'll eat without being forced.)**

Sherlock snapped to his feet, reaching over John to grab the remains of the apple, sniffing it.

"Cyanide! It's poisoned, John!" The fear in his voice was replaced with panic. **(He's a doctor, he would know, he would **_**know**_** what cyanide tastes like!) **"Amyl nitrite, I might have some in the kitchen, we need to get you to a hospital _now_." He began to dig through his pockets for his phone as he raced toward the other room.

"Sherlock, no." His voice was weak, hardly sounding like John at all. _Damn it, it was too soon!_

"There isn't time to argue!"

"Wait." Sherlock looked up halfway through dialing for an ambulance.

John was holding out another apple in his trembling hand, etched into it letters in a style he recognized clearly. _Untouched. _He let the hand holding the phone fall limp at his side in dawning horror.

"Moriarty."

A small nod. "It was either you or me."

"And so you had to go and play the hero?" Sherlock's voice was unusually high and strained.

John managed a weak smile. "I thought you said heroes don't exist."

"You do."

_(Oh god, he's nearly hysterical.)_ Even with the drug muddling his thoughts, John recognized the look in his eyes, the this-can't-be-happening emotional tailspin of losing someone. **(Poisoned apple, Snow White, another Grimm death. Alan Turing, suicide. Apple logo, homage. Rumor, said Jobs. Steve Jobs, deceased. Deceased, **_**dead**_**. Dead, dead, dead. His John, dead.) **Ever the soldier, he steeled himself and forced authority and strength into his voice.

"Sherlock."

The other man looked lost for a moment then finally lowered his lids and gave the smallest nod, though the frenzy still danced below the surface of his eyes when he opened them. "We can still stop this," he whispered.

"No Sherlock, between the two of us, you're the more important." John was gasping between words now, eyes slipping in and out of focus. "You're the one who can stop Moriarty. And with my d—what happens to me, Lestrade and the press will be on your side. It's the best I could do."

**(The best… the **_**best**_**? He was still thinking of tactical advantage? Of taking care of **_**him**_**?)**

It was logical, so logical. Sherlock hated it like he had hated nothing else in his life. "What if it's neither of us? If I could fake my death somehow…"

"No, he'd know, he told me. Sherlock, please. Please. Let it be me and not you." John was wheezing, his chest tight. He would be unconscious soon, but he had to make the other man see. He groped blindly for his hand.

Sherlock was so cold; he felt like he was made of ice. But when their shaking hands and cracking eyes met a spark ignited beneath his fingertips and skull, following gunpowder veins up his arm, down his neck, and into his chest and his entire world became nothing but unbearable pain. His lungs felt scalded, and all the air rushed out of him in a gasp of surprise. There was so much, so much _hurt, _in this complete and utter burning of his heart, emotional but oh so physical. Suddenly the room was roaring; with flames for him and darkness for John, both terrifying and unrelenting, kept only at bay by the thready connection between their hands and eyes.

"Sherlock, listen to me okay? This is important."

There was lightning between them in their contact, other information being passed between them, of memories and feelings, fear and understanding, but most of all of _each other_ and it was so close to pure energy that it did not even begin to resemble thoughts. And Sherlock was supposed to tie his mind down with something as cumbersome as words? Slowly he nodded, not breaking eye contact, not breaking that tie, the input and light and burning that was John and the both of them together **(He saw clear water in tidal pools, pulled at by the sea and the storm, churning ocean against rocks in their eyes).**

John squeezed his hand tightly to bring them closer to the surface. "You will not win this game based on chance, on the chance you can stop him next time. You have to play on his level, you can't be above it all… untouched… forever."

How did everything suddenly have eight layers of meaning? How could he even begin to put any of those layers into words?

"I'm not untouched. I'm not. I-I haven't been, not since the chess. You, John, you managed it. It hurts." He was gasping now too.

The roaring was deafening, the feelings overwhelming, every fibre of the universe was shaking. This was the last second to touch, the very last and they both knew it. Warm light shifted in the liquid grey eyes to meet the earnest heart in the blue ones.

From the moment their eyes locked over that chessboard in the first hint of this emotion, he knew. And now as John closed his eyes and pressed something into his hand, whispering "Play well," as Sherlock tilted his shaking palm to see the white king, he understood.


End file.
